


Lithium

by 7PercentSolution



Series: Periodic Tales [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Autistic Sherlock, Chemistry, Gen, Mental Health Issues, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-11
Updated: 2016-07-11
Packaged: 2018-07-22 22:51:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7456939
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/7PercentSolution/pseuds/7PercentSolution
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lithium    Li    3      6.941<br/>An alkali metal, which under standard conditions is the lightest metal and least dense solid element; it floats on water. Highly reactive and flammable, lithium never occurs freely in nature, only appearing in compounds. Trace elements of lithium are present in all organisms, yet serve no apparent vital biological function. Despite this fact, it is an intensely interesting element for so many reasons.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Part One: Power** _An important element of heat-resistant glass and ceramics, lithium has many other uses in manufacturing, too._

* * *

"There's been a coup in Bolivia." It was said with breathless excitement.

Startled, John looked up from his bowl of cereal. In his experience, that tone was reserved for bizarrely complicated and usually gruesome murders. He and Sherlock were sitting at the table, both in their pyjamas and dressing gowns. As usual, Sherlock was devouring papers, while John was more intent on re-fuelling with food.

"So? Isn't that Mycroft's area, not yours?

"Oh, John,  _this_  one is important."

"I thought coups in Latin America were sort of…expected."

Sherlock had grabbed the second section of the Financial Times and was quickly flicking through the pages of stock prices. "Ah ha!" With glee, he turned to John and pointed to the commodity prices that were in tiny printed numerals.

"John, this is REALLY important."

"Why?"

"Lithium!"

John tried to keep the perplexed look off his face. "Okaaay, I'll bite. What's a drug got to do with a coup?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You are an idiot, John."

"Maybe, but I will remain one if you don't bother to explain."

"Lithium is an alkali metal; 60% of the world's production comes from Latin America, and most of that is from Bolivia and Chile. It's mined from the salt flats there; cheap, easy and accessible in a way that China's and Australia's deposits are not, because lithium there is in ore form and has to be dug out and processed, much more expensive and time consuming, as well as environmentally damaging."

 _How does he do that all on one breath? He must have amazing lung capacity._ John put his cereal spoon down. "That's supposed to explain your 'Ah hah moment', is it?"

Sherlock looked confused. "Yes, of course."

"Well, it doesn't, so a little translation or subtext is needed, Sherlock."

His flatmate rolled his eyes. " _Batteries_ , John. Your laptop and phone depend on lithium batteries. Lithium has the highest electrical output per unit weight of any battery material. It's _rechargeable_. Demand for lithium batteries going up by over ten per cent every year, but the known sources of lithium are not increasing. And now every car manufacturer in the world is working on electric cars that will use lithium batteries. What do you think that is going to do to the price of lithium? I wouldn't be surprised to find that the people behind the coup are in some way connected to big business- either that, or the Chinese government is making sure to secure a good supply for the future."

He smirked. "Chemistry is behind most of the important events in world politics, John."

"Tell that to Mycroft, will you?"

"He already knows, John; why do you think he keeps trying to recruit me?"

oOo

"What do you have to say for yourself, Sherlock? Why did you vandalise the tape recorder?" Richard Holmes was a tall man used to getting his own way, and to the twelve year old standing in the study with his eyes glued to the floor, the tone in his father's voice carried menace. Sherlock was trying hard to stand still, but his hands clasped together behind his back were shaking.  _Fight or flight; that's what the doctor at the clinic called it. I've got to control this, or he will get even more angry._

On the desk behind his father lay the pieces of his father's memo recorder.

"Speak up! Don't play dumb, boy; you will tell me why."

Stuttering wasn't acceptable either, so he tried to put the sentence together in phrases, and say them quickly enough before his nerves tangled his tongue up. "I got curious, sir...about the power. Wanted to know how the electricity stored in the batteries powers the recorder. The batteries are re…re-chargeable. Never seen that before, so I w…wa…wanted to understand."

"So, by  _playing_  with it, you destroyed it without thinking about what was recorded on it."

Sherlock looked startled. "Was there something recorded on it?"

"Yes, you mindless cretin, a lot of work was lost when you took it apart. Hard work of mine that took hours. Recorded instructions to the people who work for me. Work that I now have to do over again, thanks to your stupidity and carelessness."

The boy kept his eyes on the floor. "I'm sorry. I didn't know that there was something important on it."  _Even if you think you are right and he is wrong, always apologise, Sherlock, if you want to avoid making him even more angry._ He kept repeating in his mind 'Mycroft's Five Steps to Avoid Making Father Angry'. He'd done Step One already by admitting he was responsible; the apology was Step Two.

"I've told you before not to play with anything in this room, Sherlock."

"I didn't  _play_  with it…I investigated it." He watched as his father's eyes narrowed at the contradiction, his anger becoming a heat that the boy could almost feel. Sherlock's hand trembled; he'd just broken Step Three- _don't argue_.

"The recorder was a high specification business machine, worth a lot of money."

That comment irked Sherlock. "You own the company, and there must be lots more recorders like this in the office. It can't be irreplaceable."

Because his eyes were down on the floor, he didn't see it coming. The slap was sudden and nearly knocked him off his feet. He gasped, but didn't cry. He bit his lip and just kept repeating in his head, hearing this brother's voice.  _Remember Step Four- don't be sarcastic._

"What punishment do you think is appropriate, Sherlock?"

"I don't know, sir. It's for you to decide."

His father was silent for a moment and then, "Your chemistry set will be given away. Some charity might find it useful for a boy who has shown scientific skill and has more aptitude than you. It's only fair to give it to someone who can actually benefit from it."

Sherlock blanched. He had few possessions that he really valued, and his father knew just how important the chemistry set was to him. "But, Father…." He couldn't disguise the pain in his voice. "I can work, do chores, earn money to pay you back for the recorder."

His father had already turned back to the desk and he swept the pieces into the rubbish bin. "That's enough. If you can't be trusted to respect other people's property, then you can't have any of your own. Get out now- and don't let me catch you in here ever again."

Sherlock left the room, trying but failing miserably to deal with Mycroft's advice.  _Step Five- accept your punishment and learn from it._  All he had learned is another reason why he hated his father.


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two: Nuclear**

_Lithium deuteride was the fusion fuel responsible for the run-away yield reactions in the first hydrogen bomb test in 1954, which led to the most significant accidental radiation contamination ever caused by the USA._

* * *

Mycroft was chewing the end of his pen as he considered this week's essay assignment-

" _The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one."_   _Discuss the difference in how Jeremy Bentham and John Mills would react to such a statement if it had been made to them._

It was a puzzle. Normally, his political philosophy tutor set a question using a quotation that was well known. Last week's question involved a quote from Aristotle, asking if St Thomas Aquinas was an Aristotelian Christian or a Christian Aristotelian. That had been easy, and he'd recognised the quote as coming from Plato's second Book of Dialogues. But none of his research so far had been able to identify where the mystery phrase about the needs of the many came from, and he was running out of time. It was due in the morning. He really  _hated_  doing things so last minute. The easy bits were done- comparing Bentham and Mills's views on utilitarianism was a simple task, but he wanted to show off his erudition by linking it to the quote.

The watery spring sunlight came in through the gothic windows of the college library's mezzanine floor. His rooms up staircase four in the back quad were cold; he preferred the warmth and quiet hum of activity in the library. One of the other first year PPE students, Jonathan Pember, was sitting across from him, trying to grapple with the same essay.

"What's bugging you, Holmes? You're such a swot; you've usually finished your essay by now and are prepping to wipe the floor with us when we meet Hodges tomorrow."

A little defensively, Mycroft looked up at the blond sitting across from him- a rugby boy, big and a bit thick, if truth be told, but well liked amongst the PPE cohort. "Bentham and Mills are not an issue for me, Pember."

The chap laughed. "Yeah, but who would have thought that Hodges was a Star Trek fan? I mean, really- he's such a _dinosaur_. Probably watched the first television series back in the sixties. Must have been keen if he then went off to _the Wrath of Khan_ film, don't you think?"

Mycroft kept a tight lid on his shock. The quote wasn't from one of the great philosophers, but from a wretched television programme? It beggared belief. He'd never watched television at home, and access at prep school and then Eton was pretty limited. He had absolutely ignored this science fiction thing from America.

The rugby player leaned over a little conspiratorially. "Can't say I'm much of a fan, so I chatted up Brookes. Being a science nerd, he's a real trekkie. Got me the character who said it and everything. Now, just need to crack the books about 18th century philosophers, and I'll get going."

Mycroft excused himself and headed off to the Porter's Lodge, to find out where Brookes' rooms were; he needed some more information. Thirty minutes later he was skim-reading the novel that was based on the film, written by Vonda K McIntyre. The second in command of the vessel was an alien by the name of Spock.  _Wasn't he a child psychologist?_  Mycroft vaguely recalled his mother reading a book by some doctor with that name, when she was trying to figure out what to do with Sherlock.

This strange character had sacrificed his own life to save the ship, enduring a painful death from radiation burns. The quote was one of his dying words, a reference to his home planet's philosophy. But, why would the professor simply include such an obviously clear reference to an extreme utilitarian ethic? What was the value in that? Why not just use a classical reference? Puzzled, he kept reading.

When he finished the novel, he pondered the thinly disguised moral teaching which underlay the work.

"What did you think of it?" Brookes was curious. Holmes was just  _so_  not the type to read scifi that he was startled by his request. He was a little in awe of the guy, whose reputation as a brilliant scholar made the other students respect him, but he seemed to have few if any close friends.

Holmes pushed his straight chestnut red hair out of his eyes and looked at Brookes with a perplexed frown. "I don't get it. What's the significance of the phrase-the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few or the one?"

"Well, that only becomes clear in the next film,  _The Search for Spock_. You see he gets…well, sort of resurrected. And the captain and the other officers sacrifice the ship and their careers when they realise that the needs of the few, or in this case the one –Spock- do matter more, because without Spock the planet Earth wouldn't have been saved in the next film."

 _Oh. Now that makes more sense._ "So, it's all about when a utilitarian morality is undermined by the Kantian categorical imperative."

"If you say so, Holmes, but I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

Mycroft completely re-wrote his essay that night. When he finished at two o'clock in the morning, he pondered the meaning of it all. Some things are more important than the "happiness of the majority." Somehow writing it made him think about Sherlock, and he felt guilty. Thinking through these issues from a philosophical point of view made him realise his own failings. He'd let the fire go out; the anger he'd felt at his father's betrayal of his brother had dimmed when Mycroft got back to the routine of Oxford and academic life. Well, he didn't intend getting radiation burns from such a toxic philosophy. He reached for the file he'd started when he'd first returned after learning that his brother was gone. It was time to start looking again in earnest for that clinic. His father might think it "better for everyone" if Sherlock was hidden out of sight, but he was damned if he was going to let him get away with it.  _The Search for Sherlock_  was his next mission.

oOo

When nuclear physicists go missing, it should be a matter of public interest, but the disappearance of Dr Salim Kharoti had not been mentioned yet in the papers.

"Take the case, Sherlock." Mycroft was tapping the base of his umbrella against the wooden floor by the fireplace.

"Why should I?"

"Because it is challenging, and important."

The brunet smirked. "You mean your people have proved useless at it. That doesn't mean it would be challenging for me. And you know very well that your definition of 'important' and mine are very far apart."

Mycroft sighed, "Do you  _really_  need me to feed your ego every time I ask you to take a case?"

"Is that a rhetorical question, or an admission of defeat?" Sherlock smirked, but kept his eyes focused on the slide in the viewfinder of his microscope. He'd put the cover slip on the specimen and slipped it under the clips while his brother was pondering how to entice him.

The British Government scowled at his brother's cool demeanour. "Why do you have to be so difficult?"

"Why do you have to be so obtuse?" came the almost immediate reply.

"Doctor Kharoti quit his job and then promptly went missing ten days ago, after erratic behaviour. We have been unable to determine his whereabouts. A nuclear physicist working at the Atomic Weapons Establishment, he is on a watch list not just because of his job but also due to relatives in Pakistan being a little less than upstanding citizens. His house has been searched, but nothing came to light. On the one hand, he could have joined a terrorist cell and is helping them prepare a dirty bomb."

Sherlock interrupted. "That's what the CIA thinks, and MI6 are willing to go along for the ride so as not to antagonise the American cousins."

Mycroft frowned. "That much is obvious, brother." He inspected the point of his umbrella. Tapping it against the floor might make his impatience with his brother clear, but the poor state of the Victorian floorboards might not be helping the umbrella, so he decided to stop. No need to irritate the landlady more than Sherlock had already done with his various mad experiments.

"On the other hand, he could have buggered off with his latest girlfriend?" Sherlock said helpfully. He still hadn't raised his eyes from the microscope.

"Perhaps. Or he's been kidnapped by criminals and we are about to receive a ransom note."

Sherlock smirked again as he looked at his brother. "No, that's what MI5 thinks. What do  _you_  think, brother, and why is no one listening to you?"

Mycroft gave up. His brother had always been able to read him, as if he were an open book. No one else could.  _Thank God._  

"Very well, I do think his disappearance is the result of something more personal, but I can't seem to get anyone interested in that angle; they all have so many agendas running that it rather gets in the way of the facts, I am afraid. That's where you come in. You have no  _special interests_  to preserve, and will find the truth rather more easily than anyone else. So, I think of it as an exercise in resource management."

Sherlock looked offended. "So, I am  _cheap and cheerful,_ am I?"

"Oh, I wouldn't overdo the cheerful bit, would you?"

Sherlock blew him a raspberry and returned to his microscope, unclipping one slide and inserting the next onto the stage. He had twenty more to go in this statistical cohort, looking at the growth of streptococcal bacteria on the surface of dead human skin tissue. It was a tedious process of killing the bacteria, staining and mounting the slides, which had taken him half the morning. It was an interesting case of a funeral director who had regularly suffered impetigo suddenly succumbing to an invasive infection of necrotising faciitis, a form of gangrene. The medical examiner ruled it natural causes, but Sherlock was investigating a different hypothesis – that someone had doused the cadavers he was working on with the bacteria, in order to provoke the more serious infection.

"It will take you an afternoon, if that. The man lived in Padworth, only a couple of miles from Aldermaston. You can take one of my drivers; investigate his house, do what you do so well- snoop."

Sherlock glowered at his brother. "You're not selling this very well, Mycroft. If you continue to insult me, you can just show yourself out the door."

Mycroft's face betrayed the tiniest of smiles. He was also adept at reading his brother's moods. The fact that he had not been told to leave five minutes ago meant that Sherlock was willing to be …incentivised.

"Would a microscope with phase contrast optics be useful in your work?"

That got Sherlock's attention. "Oooh-  _live_ specimens. You must  _really_  want to score points with Five, Six and anyone else who doesn't believe you." He looked up at the kitchen wall and thought. It didn't take long.

"Yes. Have your driver here tomorrow morning at 8, with the file."

In the end, it didn't even take the morning. Within fifteen minutes of getting into Doctor Khorati's house, Sherlock had deduced that the man was in Birmingham, undergoing treatment for skin cancer, which he believed to have been caused by chronic low dosage lithium radiation exposure at work. He wanted to keep it quiet so he could assemble a case for litigation on health and safety grounds. Sherlock delivered the details to his brother by text. He also provided a url link to the specifications for the top end Olympus CX31 Halogen Phase Contrast microscope. Everyone has their price.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three: Drugs**

**Li12CO3 and Li3C6H5O7**

_Lithium carbonate and Lithium citrate are mood stabilising drugs used in the treatment of bi-polar disorder, due to the neurological effects of the ion in the human body. They can be used as well in the treatment of unipolar depression and severe depressive episodes._

* * *

"John, head into the bathroom or look in a bedside cabinet, if there is one."

"What am I looking for when I get there, Sherlock?" John closed his eyes in frustration. Sometimes he wondered if the consulting detective thought he was a telepath. The number of times he just  _assumed_  that the doctor knew what he wanted was increasing.

"Medicine, of course. What else? Why would I send  _you_  otherwise?"

John sighed, "Sherlock, the average household has dozens of over-the-counter medicines and lots of prescription drugs, as well- so, anything in particular?" He'd been sent on this expedition from Barts' mortuary, when an unidentified teenager turned up dead, with no obvious signs of injury. Molly had been puzzling over the cause of death for hours. On the one hand it was obvious- renal failure- and the body was severely dehydrated. But what had caused the kidneys to pack up was not clear. The boy didn't have a mark on him, the stomach contents proved to be predictable- pizza, cola and popcorn, which tallied with the ticket stub found in the back pocket of the jeans he'd been wearing. He'd collapsed in the lobby of the cinema, had a seizure and died before the ambulance could get there. She'd sent tissue and blood samples off to be tested at the pathology labs, but they were a bit backed up and could only promise the results "sometime Thursday afternoon."

Molly was upset. "He seems so young. He's a mystery wrapped up in an enigma. No idea who he is or why he died. No match on fingerprints, but I suppose that's not surprising, given his youth."

Sherlock and John were already in the morgue examining a cadaver that had been in the Thames for four days when the pathologist asked them if they could figure out a way to identify the boy. "I just hate unknowns; it seems so unfair on his family and friends." There had been no wallet or phone, no ID of any kind, just a single unlabeled key in a pocket.

It took the consulting detective only twenty minutes to deduce the name of the young man, based on his clothing and boots; an unusual badge on his jacket lapel turned out to be from a small hiking club, a trail that led to a name: Richard Atkinson, aged 18. He lived at home; the club was able to provide an address and telephone number from the insurance release form signed by all members. An attempt to contact his parents by phone went unanswered, so John went to the house to meet the local police there. If there was a parent on site, then the constable would pass on the bad news. If the house was unoccupied, the police presence would allow him to use the key to investigate the scene.

Sherlock decided to remain behind and carry on working on his drowned cadaver, but he promised to contact the boy's Sixth Form college, to see if the teachers could provide any information about the possible cause of death.

John went through the medicine cabinet- a number of different anti-depressants, but all in the name of Robert Atkinson, presumably Richard's father- a fact backed up when the constable read the name on unopened post sitting on the hall table. The master bedroom looked tidy, if a bit dusty. The teenager's room, on the other hand, was a total shambles. The kitchen was even worse, with dirty dishes piled high in the sink, and the fridge was virtually empty. John's mobile went off when he was checking the kitchen cupboards. He checked the caller ID and picked up.

"Sherlock, the boy's father was on some medication for depression- the usual cocktail, but the prescriptions are all at least five months old. Everything else is what you'd expect- aspirin, antacids, the obvious stuff."

"Yes, well, that date would be right, because Robert Atkinson died four and a half months ago. According to his college supervisor, the father killed himself by driving his car at high speed into a wall. Verdict was suicide, brought on by clinical depression. He was bi-polar and had been struggling for years. The supervisor said the son took it very badly. He couldn't focus, was referred to the school doctor, who sent him off for some tests so he could get extenuating circumstances on submitting assignments- the doctor there thought the boy might also be bi-polar. He's been living on his own in the house. No relatives; mother died when he was six. Can you check the bin? Any sign of a large bottle of lithium?"

John tried to remember if there had been a rubbish bin in the upstairs bathroom. He glanced into the one under the sink, and spotted a white bottle among the debris of take-away dinners. "Hang on." He put the phone down and cleaned off the curry from the label. "Yes- Lithium carbonate. The bottle is big enough to have had dozens of tablets- but it's empty now."

"Look for a mortar and pestle, and a glass."

John looked around the kitchen work surface. Sure enough there was a glass, and the grinder bowl had traces of white powder in the bottom.

"Got it in one, Sherlock. You think this is a suicide, then?"

"Yes- purposive overdose; the tox report will confirm it on Thursday. The serum lithium concentration will be probably between seven and ten molarity* per litre. It's slow acting- giving him plenty of time to enjoy the film, but the dose was enough to induce a seizure, coma and death, even in someone who wasn't taking it regularly. Take a look around his bedroom, see if there is anything from a doctor about an appointment."

John found the torn shreds of a letter in the bin upstairs. He put the bits together again like a jigsaw puzzle and called Sherlock back. "You're right- he tore the letter up, but it's calling him in for a psychiatric consultation."

"Case solved; tell the constable that this was a suicide. I'll finish up here and meet you back at the flat."

Later that evening, John found he couldn't shake off his feeling that the death had been so sad. Sherlock had been quiet all evening. They'd both given up on crap telly; just not in the mood.

Uncharacteristically, as John was on his way out of the living room toward his bedroom, Sherlock gave a sigh.

"Talk to me, Sherlock."

"The boy must have known he was about to be diagnosed as bipolar, and just couldn't face it, given what his father had been through. He knew the nature of the illness, and decided to take his own life." There as a pause. "Ironic that he chose lithium; one of its supposed benefits is that it reduces the likelihood of suicide."

As he watched the brunet go down the hall to his bedroom, John wondered how Sherlock would know that fact.

oOo

"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Doctor Cohen, on such short notice. I understand that I am lucky to have caught you before your move to South London." Mycroft shook hands with a petite doctor, as she came around her desk to shake his hand and offer him a seat. Her short dark hair framed a pair of lively eyes. She seemed too young to be the same person that he had been told was one of the foremost paediatric psychiatrists in Oxford.

"Yes, well, my apologies for the mess- I am packing up, as you can see." The office was strewn with cardboard boxes half full of books and files. "I take up my appointment at Bethlem Royal Hospital in a week's time. Can I offer you some tea or coffee, Lord Mycroft?"

The use of the title made him blush. He wasn't used to it, didn't think he ever would be, in fact. He could feel the slight tinge of pink on his cheeks rise, but he got it back under control. He'd turned 18 only two weeks ago, and inherited the estates and property that made him financially independent from his father. But in his mind, inheriting the title of Viscount from his mother would always be associated with Mummy's death. "Doctor Cohen, I don't use the title. It's just Mycroft Holmes."

She nodded. "Fine, whatever you prefer. Doctor Saunders at the Radcliffe passes on his compliments, by the way. I gather it was his suggestion that had brought you here."

"Yes. He's an old family friend of my mother. I don't know if he explained my…mission."

The doctor smiled at his use of the unusual word. She was regularly approached by undergraduates at Oxford who were interested in child psychology and wanted her expert opinion, but Saunders said this Holmes needed her advice on a personal matter.

"All he said was that your need for background information was not academic."

"No, it's about my brother. He's ten. Our mother died in January this year, and my father has sent my brother to a clinic. He won't tell me where, and he won't discuss his treatment with me. So, it's a little delicate. I need to know that our conversation will remain confidential."

Esther Cohen looked at the young man sitting on the other side of the desk. Obviously public school educated, and very well-spoken; he had a quiet confidence about him that was well beyond his age. Unlike most of the scruffy undergrad students, he was immaculately dressed, and carried himself with a maturity that rather impressed her.

"All conversations about patients are confidential, Mr Holmes."

"Mycroft, please. But, he's  _not_  your patient, Doctor Cohen. And if my father were to find out about our discussion, it could be...awkward for you."

That made her smile. "And you, too, I presume?"

"Yes."

He said nothing more, leaving her to draw her own conclusions.  _Interesting. He is smart enough to know when to keep silent and leave the choice to me_.

"Right, on the basis of deniability, then this conversation never happened."

He nodded, and then waited for her to speak.

"Then let's begin by you telling me why your brother was sent to a clinic, and what you know about his symptoms."

In the next twenty minutes, Esther Cohen was introduced to the complex puzzle that was Sherlock Holmes. The diagnosis of early development disorders, the communication issues, the repetitive behaviour, self-stimulation, anxiety, the lack of emotion, eye contact and the frequent meltdowns that had featured all through his brother's life. And the time he sat next to a crying nine year old brother on Christmas Eve who asked if a person could die simply if they wanted to badly enough, because he did. "He knew without being told that our mother was dying, and he could see what was going to happen to him when she did."

"Early on a number of specialists diagnosed autism, but none seem able to agree on exactly what form because he doesn't follow the usual patterns, apparently. If you could overlook the autism, he's a genius, a sort of observational savant. What I can tell you is that the only person with whom he had a close relationship was my mother, and, as I said, she died five months ago. He did talk to me, but that stopped at Christmas. Five days after she died on the 20th of January, Sherlock starting crying and couldn't stop. It …"

Mycroft stopped here. His grasp of the medical terminology, description of the symptoms and quietly dispassionate explanation raised him yet again in her estimation. But, in that moment's hesitation, she caught the first glimpse of a young man trying to keep his own emotions under control. She gave him a gentle smile of encouragement.

He looked down, took a deep breath, and continued. "Sherlock's crying  _enraged_  my father. He is a scientist, a man for whom logic and facts matter and emotion is…absurd. He has never  _connected_  with Sherlock in what one might call a paternal relationship. With the house full of friends and family of my mother, I think Sherlock's uncontrolled, excessive emotional distress embarrassed him in some way. So, I think he decided to do something about it."

She raised an eyebrow, "Such as?"

"My father owns pharmacology companies. I think he drugged Sherlock. His company has the license in the UK for Priadel, that's lithium citrate syrup, and he has access to sedatives, too. So, the day of the funeral I came back to find Sherlock asleep- and he was kept that way until my father made me return to university four days later. The day after I got back to Oxford, he sent Sherlock away to a clinic. And he won't tell me where. All I know is that he isn't the NHS system anywhere in the southeast."

She was surprised. "How can you be sure?"

"I've contacted every Child and Adolescent Mental Health Service unit in the southern half of the country over the past four months. None have him on record. I don't think my father would go north- he's had a lifelong prejudice against northerners. So, unless my father falsified his name, he isn't in an NHS facility."

Cohen tilted her head speculatively. "No CAMHS unit would give information out about whether someone was a patient just on the basis of a phone call- even from a family member such as a brother."

He gave her a look, one that said  _I'm not that stupid._  "But they would do so to a GP who was asked to forward a patient's medical records. A GP who just happens to have lost the letter requesting the files because the surgery had been water damaged in a flood, and so is calling around to see if it was their unit that had made the request."

She laughed. "Oh, that's good. It would work, too." Her estimation of Mycroft Holmes rose yet again.

"Anyway, after talking to some of my medical contacts about a hypothetical case, I've decided that it's unlikely that my father would put him into the NHS system, because clinical decisions to keep someone as an in-patient couldn't be controlled in the same way. A private clinic is more discrete and someone can be institutionalised indefinitely there more easily. That's my problem. I don't know where to start to find these clinics, and I'm not entirely sure whether the same approach of calling as a GP would work with them. So, that's why I'm asking you. If you wanted to institutionalise a ten year old boy with the symptoms I have described, where would you start?"

She thought about it. She could assume that money is no object with the Holmes family. "Are you sure that it would be in the UK? What about overseas?"

She saw the young man's shoulders drop a bit. "I hope not. It will be hard enough to track him down in the UK."

She realised she didn't want to disappoint him. "Well, let's take this one country at a time, starting with the UK. My next question is whether your father wants to find some therapy and treatment programme that will deal with the severe depressive episode and re-start your brother's socialisation, or…" She stopped here.

"… if he just wants to lock him away forever. Is that what you were going to say?"

"Mmm, yes, not to put too fine a point on it. The list of places will be different, depending on the answer."

She watched Mycroft take a while to consider her question. "I've been asking myself that same question and, to be honest, I don't know the answer. To be sure, I will need a list of both. I don't think he'd put him someplace squalid and horrible. The risk of exposure would be too great if there was a scandal and the place got exposed in some investigation. My father cares too much about the family name to take that kind of risk. So, it could be a clinic that is very expensive but just willing to…go through the motions of keeping a patient quiet and under control indefinitely."

Then he sighed. "But, my father is Richard Holmes. He owns pharmaceutical companies all over the world. Sometimes I think the scientist in him would not be content with so Victorian an attitude – just hide the mentally ill person away. I would have thought, no, hoped that...in his better moments, he would want Sherlock to be helped." Here he gave an almost wistful smile. "I respect my father. He's never done anything to me that would undermine the love I have for him- until this."

She could see his pain, his confusion. Not wanting to think the worst of his father, yet having to deal with what he thought was wrongful behaviour.

"OK, before I go any further, I have to know something. Is it possible that your father is right? That your brother might well be in the best possible place now, being cared for by people who are trained to do the best they can for him?" She looked at him to see what affect her words were having. "I guess what I am asking is, what will you do when you find him, Mycroft?"

She watched the young man drop his eyes, swallow hard and take a breath. Then his chin came up and he said calmly, "Sherlock is my brother. I have loved him since the day he was brought home from the hospital and I saw my mother look at him. She and I did what we could to help him grow up, and before she died, she asked me to look after him. He's all I have left of her now, and I'm all he has left, too. I won't abandon him, simply because my father thinks he's inconvenient."

He continued and she heard the conviction in his tone. "When I find him, I will make sure that he is getting the best possible treatment and that he is helped to live as normal a life as he wants and is capable of having. Above all else, I want him to know that he has not been abandoned or rejected, that he is loved. I am not sure that he fully understands what love means, but that doesn't mean that I don't. He is my brother and I will always care about him."

Esther Cohen made up her mind then and there. "I will help you, Mycroft. Give me a couple of days. I'll write up those two lists for you. Like you, I'm going to hope that your father wants doctors who will treat your brother's severe depressive episode. That will help narrow the likely places. Come back on Tuesday and we'll talk about the best way to get them to tell you if he is there or not."


End file.
